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The Highlander Is All That

Page 18

by York, Sabrina


  She sat up and scraped her hair from her face. “I left some buckets on the hearth. You know. If you’re . . . interested.”

  He turned to her, which put his face in shadow, but she heard the smile in his voice. “Are you trying to get me naked, young Anne?”

  Oh, she loved when he called her that. She couldn’t hide her grin. “Would that be so wrong?”

  Again, he stilled. He was silent for some time. Then he said, in a low voice, “What are you saying, Anne?”

  She batted her lashes at him. “I think you know what I mean.” And then, as he stood, she laughed and said, “You have been on the road for the better part of a week.”

  His disappointment was palpable, which, conversely, delighted her. “That I have,” he said on a sigh. “Do you think you can handle the sight of a naked man?”

  “I am hardly some swooning innocent.”

  His expression was wry.

  “I’m not.”

  “Still,” he said somberly. “I doona think it would be wise for me to be naked in your presence.”

  “Do you think you would lose your mind and ravage me?” Oh. Please.

  His grin was crooked. “Quite the opposite. Women often lose their minds and ravage me when they see me in all my glory.”

  “It’s a good thing you are humble.”

  “Indeed, it is.”

  But all banter aside, she did want to see him in all his glory. “If it will help, I will close my eyes.”

  “Do you promise?” he asked. “I am terribly shy.”

  “Of course.” Her smile was mischievous. The lie tasted delicious.

  “Heaven only knows what will happen if you peek.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I might indeed lose my mind and ravage you.” Suddenly, he didn’t seem to be teasing at all. She sobered as well and stared at him.

  “What are you saying, Ranald?”

  “You have to know I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  Oh heavens! She’d suspected, but to hear him say it . . . Well, that was something else entirely. Her pulse pattered in her chest.

  “I’ve kept my hands to myself because you made clear you were no’ interested in that kind of relationship with a man. If you havena changed your mind . . . say so now.”

  She swallowed heavily. This was the moment of truth. “I . . . have.”

  His gaze narrowed. He seemed to go on point. “You have . . . what?”

  “I have changed my mind.” She couldn’t meet his gaze.

  “Dear God.”

  Instead of rushing to her side and sweeping her into his arms as she expected—and hoped—he began clanging around by the hearth.

  She frowned. “What are you doing?”

  He stopped and glared at her. “If you think I am making love to you for the first time without bathing, you are mad.”

  As thoughtful and sweet as that was, she was hardly patient. Not now that they’d made the decision to . . . do this. She could barely keep still as he warmed the water and then began removing his shirt.

  Her gaze intensified.

  He stopped and glowered at her. “No peeking,” he said behind his smile.

  She clapped her hands over her eyes. And hardly peeked at all.

  That is, until he tugged down his breeks and . . .

  Good glory. It was magnificent.

  He’d not been bragging.

  His cock was long and full and stood erect.

  “You’re no’ looking, are you?”

  She took away her hands. “Only a little.”

  It was fascinating to see that beautiful rod jerk. “Woman, you will be the death of me,” he grumbled as he lowered himself into the tub.

  What followed was the fastest bath she’d ever witnessed.

  He scrubbed himself with a manic frenzy. There was barely time for her to cross the room and hold out the towel for him before he finished and levered out with a splash, dripping and gorgeous and glimmering in the firelight.

  “Shall I dry you?” she asked, eyeing the rippling muscles of his chest.

  He snatched the towel from her. “You do intend to kill me, do you no’?”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.” Really. She didn’t.

  He yanked her into his arms, though he was still damp, and she squealed. He silenced her with a kiss. It was warm and wild and unrestrained.

  But then he held her away and stared into her eyes. “Tell me you’re sure.”

  Oh, she was. “Ranald.” She stepped back into his arms and threaded her fingers in his damp hair. “I’m sure.”

  “There’s no going back from this, lass.”

  “I don’t want to go back. I want this.”

  “Do you?” An agonized hope limned his tone.

  She smiled up at him. “I have for some time,” she confessed.

  “Well, hell, woman,” he barked. “Why did you no’ say something sooner?” Then he whipped her up into his arms, carried her across the room, and dropped her onto the bed.

  He came down beside her and her head spun at his nearness, his heat, his scent.

  Then he cupped her face and kissed her again. This time gently, as though he was seducing her, though they both knew that was not necessary.

  When his palm scudded down, over her breasts and hips to her bare legs, she shivered. But then, he reversed his exploration . . . beneath her nightgown. He found her core and fluffed his thumb though her curls, staring at her intently.

  “Do you have any idea how many times I have imagined this?” he groaned.

  She grabbed both his ears—because he’d found that button, the bundle of nerves that made all thought improbable—and huffed, “Stop talking.”

  There was no call for him to chuckle, but she was gratified when he raised her hem. “You’re wet,” he said. “And this needs to go.”

  Though she was shy to be completely bared before him, there was not another man on earth she trusted like him, so she allowed him to strip away her gown.

  But then he stopped and stared at her for so long, she became self-conscious. When she tried to cover herself, he caught her wrists and opened her arms. “Och, nae, wee lass. I want to see you.”

  She couldn’t hold back a shudder as he stared at her. He then gently caressed each part of her, reverently, lovingly. Her breasts, the tips of which throbbed magnificently, her belly, her hips.

  He lowered his head and his lips followed the same path.

  She was not an innocent, but she was hardly an experienced woman. She wished she knew better how to reciprocate, how to give him this kind of pleasure. But when she reached for him he shook his head. “Do no’.”

  She put out a lip. “Why not?”

  His laugh was harsh. “Because I am ready, Anne. More than ready. Let me ready you.”

  It was probably childish to pout. “I’m ready.”

  “Nae. You are no’.” He proceeded to show her just how much more prepared he could make her. It was a delicious delirium. His lips and fingers drew insanity upon her, making her whimper and weep, tremble and quake. Beg.

  When he kissed his way over her belly to her most private parts and opened her with his thumbs, she sucked in a breath and quivered in anticipation.

  He did not disappoint. His mouth was warm and questing. He nibbled and nipped, kissed and sucked, made her mad with wanting.

  Amid this glory, he slipped a finger inside her and the gathering storm that had been hunting her broke, taking her, spinning her, tossing her hither and yon.

  It was as though her body was not her own, but at the same time, the sensations racing through her made her feel more alive than she’d ever been. Her soul soared, her mind spun, and her flesh exulted in a bliss that was nearly beyond bearing. It was an incredible sensation. One she’d never felt before. One she never wanted to end.

  But it did, though he brought her down slowly.

  She was still twitching and groaning with pleasure when he eased up and o
ffered her a haughty grin. “Now,” he said in a rough voice. “Now you are ready.”

  Then, not breaking her gaze, he rose above her, spread her legs with his, and nudged at her entrance.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  God. She was slick. Slick and hot and ready for him.

  As Ranald rubbed himself against her slit, his pulse pounded in his temple, his cock ached with need, his heart rejoiced.

  She’d been so responsive. So open. So welcoming.

  He’d loved making her lose control, his lovely, guarded Anne. He’d loved making her cry out and whimper and plead.

  Now it was time to answer those pleas. He could only hope he could control himself, hold back his frenetic passion until he could bring her to climax again.

  He had his doubts.

  He’d waited far too long. He’d loved her for so long.

  With a deep breath, he fisted his cock and guided it home.

  A shudder took him. God, she was tight. Wet. Perfect.

  He continued his advance until he was seated fully, then he froze, waiting for her to open her eyes. When she did, there was a frown on her face. “What’s wrong?” she snapped.

  “Ach. Nothing’s wrong, wee Anne.”

  “Why did you stop?” Was she pouting?

  “I wanted to make sure I’m no’ hurting you.”

  There was no call for her to smack his shoulder. “It felt wonderful . . . until you stopped.”

  She delighted him so, he couldn’t help teasing. Just a little. “Ach. Do you want more?”

  Her frown intensified and she arched her back. “Yes, damn you.”

  “Such language,” he whispered in her ear. “Whatever would Esmeralda say?”

  Ach. Probably the wrong thing to say.

  She stilled and yanked his head up by the hair so she could glower at him. “How can you think of her at a time like this?”

  “My apologies.” Though he was anything but repentant. One had to have thoughts to be repentant. He made a small movement to distract her, one that he knew found that bundle of nerves deep within her, because she sank her fingers into his scalp and growled. “Yes,” she huffed. “Yes.”

  He had every intention of teasing her more, but just then, she clutched him with her velvety muscles and her crazed response lit a fire in his gut.

  “God, Anne,” he groaned. He took hold of her hips, raised her up, and yanked out.

  She wailed in protest, but he reversed direction and sank deep again.

  Her shudder was worth the effort. Her body closed on his cock in an exquisite and agonizing grasp. He grit his teeth and pulled out and thrust again. And again.

  He became a rutting beast then, fucking his woman with a fury that made his head go light, made shivers dance on his skin, made sweat bead at his temple.

  And—glory be—she was right there with him. His wild woman. His mate.

  They rose together, to those blinding heights, she scratching at his back in her frenzy and need, and he barely hanging on.

  He knew when she crested. Her body seized on him in a series of agonizing quivers, her eyes went wide, and she threw back her head with a silent cry.

  Relief—utter and glorious—gushed through him and he let go the tight hold on his reins, launching into a series of hard, fast thrusts, each one of which pushed him higher and higher into the ether.

  When he exploded, filling her with jet after jet of hot seed, she held him, stroked him, and murmured comforting words.

  It was, without exception, the most enchanting moment of his life.

  He lifted his head, though it took some effort, and kissed her on the lips as they both gasped for breath and fought to calm their beating hearts.

  He cupped her cheek and brushed back her hair and stared at her.

  His Anne.

  God. He loved her.

  But he didn’t speak the words. It was far too early for that.

  Besides, they had all night.

  And more.

  * * *

  Hamish waited impatiently in the common rooms of the Yorkshire inn. He’d expected Ranald to be up at first light and ready to go, but when he’d knocked on his friend’s door, he hadn’t answered.

  Granted, the inn had been raucous last night, and Ranald was a light sleeper. Perhaps he’d been kept awake all night and decided to have a lie-in, but that was very unlike him.

  Anne had also not made an appearance.

  One thing he’d learned living in the St. Claire home: Anne was an early riser. No doubt the cacophony had kept her awake too.

  Not for the first time, he thanked the Gods that he could sleep through a cannon barrage.

  Still, he was anxious to be going. Mary had been exceedingly difficult to find. Along the way, they had stopped at each posting station—many of the ostlers remembered them from last time, and how annoying was it to make this journey again?—but no one had any information whatsoever, which led Hamish to suspect they’d missed something critical.

  Anne was anxious to find her sister and determined they do so before it was too late, but the journey was clearly taking its toll on her. It was obvious she didn’t care for extended travel.

  Yet when she came down the stairs that morning—at long last—she had a smile on her face and a glow about her.

  “Good morning,” she chirped.

  Hamish stared at her. Was this Anne? Somber, cautious, sometimes gloomy Anne? “I . . . ah . . . did you sleep well?” he asked.

  She responded with a wide smile. “Not a wink,” she said as she sipped the tea the server brought.

  “Ach. Well. You can sleep in the coach.”

  “Of course.”

  Silence swelled between them, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her attention was elsewhere entirely. On Mary, he assumed.

  “We should reach the border in a day or two,” he offered.

  She smiled at him again. “Mmm.”

  He had the suspicion she hadn’t heard a word he’d said, but there was no time to think on that because just then Ranald came bounding down the stairs.

  “Finally,” Hamish said, leaping to his feet. “The carriage has been ready for hours.”

  “Ach, my apologies,” he said, shooting a grin at Anne.

  Curiously, she grinned back.

  “Did you have trouble sleeping?” Hamish asked.

  “Mmm.” Hardly an answer, and oddly reminiscent of Anne’s. Indeed, the two were still staring at each other. And smiling.

  The little hairs on Hamish’s neck rose as realization dawned. He leaned closer and studied his friend. And yes. It was clear.

  Ranald had had a bath.

  And that meant only one thing.

  Bluidy hell.

  No doubt it was childish of him to be annoyed that his friend seemed to have no problem seducing one of the duke’s cousins, when for Hamish it had been a transgression. But he was annoyed. And more.

  His logical mind reminded him that Bower’s situation was far different from his, but his heart told that irritating voice to shut up.

  It wasn’t fair.

  It wasn’t right.

  He tried not to glare at them both as they boarded the coach but failed.

  Fortunately, neither of them paid him any mind in the least, so they weren’t even aware of his pique.

  Ranald was in a jovial mood all day—he and Anne chattered away like magpies—which was annoying when Hamish tried to nap. But his friend’s mood deflated to something sullen when they arrived at the next inn to discover that there were only two rooms available and that he and Hamish had to share.

  Hamish didn’t even pretend sympathy.

  In fact, it served Ranald right.

  Although, when he woke up in the middle of the night, Ranald was nowhere to be found.

  Anne was ill the next day, though she insisted they push through. They were too close to their goal to wait any longer, she announced. And though Ranald was palpably concerned, he knew better than to argue with her.

 
; Thank God for small favors.

  Hamish was impatient too.

  This leg of the journey seemed to be the longest, probably because they were all anxious at what they might find. Or not find.

  When they arrived at Gretna Green, the first thing Ranald did was set Anne up in a room at the inn—because she had become decidedly green—and then the two men headed for the church to see if a woman of Mary’s description had been recently married. If the answer was no, Hamish wasn’t sure what to do next. They could have passed Mary and Jamison on the road, or the lovers could have gone to Paxton Toll or one of the other border towns known for elopements.

  Unfortunately, no one at the church recognized Mary from the miniature Anne had brought, which was disheartening.

  How terrible would it be to have to report to the duke that they’d lost one of his ducklings?

  “What now?” Bower asked, rubbing at his beard with his palm. After nearly a week of travel, they were both unkempt.

  “Blacksmith?”

  His friend sighed and nodded, and they plodded over to the shop, which was also known for performing weddings. They had a little more luck here as the blacksmith, peering at the miniature through one eye, said, “Aye. I think I remember her.” But he couldn’t give them any information on where Mary and Jamison might have gone.

  That was one of the benefits of elopement. The secrecy of it all. And though Gretna Green was a smallish village, it had become somewhat of a destination of late, bringing in hundreds of couples seeking to circumvent Lord Hardwicke’s Marriage Act.

  In the end, they got nowhere.

  As they headed back for the inn, tired and dispirited, Ranald sighed. “I doona know how I’m going to tell her.”

  “Esmeralda?” Hamish asked.

  His friend shot him a puzzled glance. Then his expression cleared. “Nae. Anne. She’ll be devastated. She’s been so worried about her sister.” His tone was ragged and through the words, his adoration for Anne was clear.

  “Ah.” Hamish said nothing more. Though he longed to scold Ranald for his indiscretion, he had no room to talk after what had transpired between himself and Elizabeth.

  At the thought of her, a pain shot through his chest and he swallowed heavily.

  She would be married by now.

  Lady Twiggenberry.

  What a horrible notion. It made his stomach churn. His heart ache. His head throb.

 

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